Verrueckt
by robotsmonstersaliens
Summary: What were the Arrancars like as humans? We follow the young German soldier Grimmwald Jaegar-Jaques as he struggles to survive in WWII. This story is dedicated to my brother. M for some language and violence, just in case. One Shot.


_ May 12th 1940, _

"Hail Hitler!" General Werner Kempf, Leader of the Sixth Panzer Division shouted at his men. The sound of the awful words made Grimmwald's teeth grate together, but he snapped his spine to attention anyway, hand raised in the air. He kept his face carefully neutral; his blue-green eyes lacked the glint of mischief that they normally contained. 'Hail Hitler!' He bellowed.  
Grimmwald Jaeger-Jacques did not like Hitler. In fact, he hated that son of a bitch, and while he loved Germany, he was also half French, and he knew that what most of what that mad man was doing was wrong. Very wrong.  
He sensed that Germany would be destroyed.  
But he had joined the army to protect his family. He had to, he loved them more than anything, and anyone who avoided enlisting was either very rich, or a traitor to his nation who got his family killed. Grimmwald, or Grimm, as his friends called him, was neither.  
"Today, my soldiers, old hands, new recruits, today we stand for Germany. Tomorrow, we invade France!"  
Grimm managed to hide the wince on his face at the mention of his other country. If he had the power, he would stop this whole army before they even set foot over Belgium's border. But he was just a normal man, and certainly not a mass murderer. He quelled his desire and listened to his orders. Such violent, wishful thinking would not protect his family.  
With one final 'Hail' he was sent off to the barracks to await the morning's dispatch.

The Sixth Panzer Division, his division, was a mix of tanks and mechanized infantry, which he was a member of. It was his job to invade France, to carry out the Blitzkreig, and win for Germany and the Fuhrer. He sighed at the thought. He settled in for a rough night's sleep.

The next morning, he woke to the harsh call of a harsh morning call and the sound of soldiers mobilizing. He set about getting his things in order  
"Jaeger, isn't it?" A voice asked as he made his bed with disciplined efficiency. He suddenly felt the urge to smother the Nazi behind him with a pillow, but again curbed the impulse.  
"That's me. Grimmwald Jaeger." He replied. The second part of his surname was a secret, a French stain on his perfect German record. It was a name he wished he could spit in Hitler's face.  
'You are orderly, Jaeger. You follow rules well. Keep it up and you'll make it far in this army.'  
'Thank you, sir." He said smoothly. He raised his hand in an informal salute. 'Hail Hitler!'  
With a pleased nod, the officer returned the salute and left. Grimm wondered if one of his orders would ever to be to decapitate that man. He shook his head.  
Grimm wasn't normally so violent, but since joining the army, he had gained both the skills to effectively murder someone, as well as the knowledge of how truly twisted the Nazi policies were. But his family was what mattered, he reminded himself. The minute what he was doing became about something else, he was a monster.

Grimm smoothed his blonde hair back, it was cut rather short and slicked back as much as his wild locks would allow. He felt the hate bubbling inside his veins calm slightly. He took a deep breath and smoothed the sheets he would no longer be using gently.

"Your last name isn't _only _Jaeger. Or didn't you want to mention that?" Instantly Grimm's blood was boiling again. He whirled around to face the wheedling voice from behind him.

"What do you want, Lutz?" He sighed. Lutz had been someone he had hung out with back when they were young and Germany was still impoverished under The Weimar Republic. Despite their interactions, Grimm had never really liked the boy. He was a perverted, effeminate sort and with his dark hair and strange, almost purple eyes, he gave off an almost unnatural air. Now, of course, his hair was shorn short, just like the rest of them, but his eyes were still shifty and unsettling in his pale face. For some reason, Grimm had always thought about him as an octopus, latching on to anything he could use to further his own 'power.'

"I just want to let you know, that I know that you are half French. And I know that you have loyalty to that prissy nation. My eyes don't miss much. If you so much as think about disobeying an order, I'll tell everyone your mother is a French spy. Clear?" He smiled darkly, and turned to walk away.

Grimmwald's spine went cold, he felt like a hole had been punched through his abdomen.

"You bastard. As if you aren't half Greek yourself." He growled. His blue eyes were sent into shadow. There was a clear question in his voice, a question that Lutz answered, though it was left unasked.

"It pays to have information to hang over someone. I need to progress through the ranks, simple as that. Who better to have under my thumb than the golden Aryan? Besides. Greece doesn't concern The Fatherland. There is no reason for someone with a little Greek in them to be a spy. A Frenchman, however…" He trailed off with a self-satisfied smirk.

"Where do you get off...?" Grimm began, but Lutz held up a sarcastic finger.

"It's a dog eat dog world Grimmwald. That's just how it is." He smirked slightly over his shoulder. "_Sorry_."

_November 7th 1940_

Grimm had been transferred out of the Sixth Panzer division and into the Waffen-SS he had caught a high ranking officer's eye and, after a short observation of his skills, had been transferred. Apparently his bloodline and skills were too spectacular to be wasted on the ordinary Wehrmacht. Unfortunately Lutz had also been transferred to the SS.

They were both only SS-Sturmmann, but they competed with each other fiercely, though Grimmwald was considered the superior fighter of the two.

Grimm had managed to suppress his aversion to the Nazi authority and channel his destructive tendencies into the French that his army was so preoccupied with subjugating. The faces of corpses discarded on the field, men he had killed with his machine gun, or hell in the forest in single combat with a knife still burned their way into his head. But they had been prepared, they had known they might come up against someone like Grimmwald Jaeger and perish. But a voice always whispered, 'They never thought that they would be killed by Grimmwald _Jacques_, did they? A countryman? Never."

But he shook them off, pretended that sometimes, in the dark, he saw their blood staining their hands. He was German now, only German; he had to be for his mother. Because at even one slip up, one hesitation, Lutz would rat him out. Lavender-eyed parasite.

That's why when his superior officer told him to murder six children, he didn't even question it. Other soldiers did, but not Grimmwald. He stepped right up out of the crowd and shot each cowering, dirty, sobbing child in the head. He even gazed in their eyes as he did it, and he numbed the screaming voice inside his head, the guilt and the horror that built in that hole that had been in his stomach since Lutz had threatened his mother.

Even his commanding officer had been surprised at the coldness that he had just displayed. He turned from the crumpled little bodies, and even though every muscle in his face screamed for him not to; he grinned. It was a broad toothy smile, directed first at his officer, and then at Lutz. In his mind, as he smiled, he vowed he would tear Lutz apart for making him do these, horrible things, for destroying these innocent little lives. HE felt them, in his mind wailing, asking him why, demanding to know why. He wanted to cry, but he couldn't show any weakness to Lutz, to the SS.

Unbeknownst to him, in his train of thoughts, his once pretty, serene grin had twisted into something maniacal and his eyes filled with anger and a lust for the destruction of Lutz, of the Nazi's. His normally strictly slicked back blonde hair was disheveled, pieces hung in his eyes, and it honestly made him look even more dangerous, a beast that had been unleashed by blood lust. His black uniform and pale face were both spattered with blood.

Finally, a young, new officer couldn't contain his discomfort. "Holy Shit." He whispered. And Suddenly, Grimmwald realized that even to these sadistic bastards, he looked like a monster.

He walked off through the forest, and before he was even out of earshot, he began to laugh.

_December 12th 1941_

_All the Jews will be destroyed_

With a gasp he awoke from his fitful slumber, covered in sweat in the cold night air. He had dreamed of the children again. And the mothers, and the faceless sons that he had killed. The grind of his cold killer's fate against the innocent lives of the French people, his people, weighed on him heavily. Even his fellow SS officers looked at him with an awed horror at this point. Because it hadn't stopped at those six children. It had been so much worse than that.

He had lost count of how many had lain at his feet, first with death by bullet, then ushering the Jews and Gypsies and homosexuals onto the trains like cattle to send them off to a camp where all that would be left of them, in the end, would be the ashes of their bones, floating on the breeze.

It had been over a year since he had slaughtered those children. Keeping the peace in France had become easier and easier, the people wanted to protect themselves, and most of the rebels had faded into obscurity. Britain was hard pressed and failing, and even thought the war in Russia wasn't looking too good, and the Americans had _finally_ declared war on the Reich, it was looking more and more like Germany would conquer the world. Grimmwald only felt guilt. There was no right in this war, only destruction. And what was even worse was that he was growing numb to his own hands tearing people apart. It was numbness he felt when his bullets spattered the brains of rebels on the walls of their home. It was numbness when, gun less, he had killed a soldier with his bare hands.

He felt guilt, too, but only afterwards. He couldn't abide killing innocents, he felt sick whenever he did. But after a year of only cold blood, he himself had also grown colder. Would there be a time when he felt nothing when he destroyed?

"Hey, Engels." He called lowly, scrubbing a hand over his face. He was eighteen years old and still didn't have a beard. This once would have annoyed him. Now he was only grateful for the time saver.

"Rottenfuhrer Jaeger." A voice responded to him from outside the tent.

"I can't sleep. Mind if I join you? Guarding in France seems to have become the most boring task in all of Europe."

"Certainly Sir." Engels replied. Grimmwald shrugged on his coat and padded silently out to where the Sturmmann sat. He had been promoted after his assessment months before. The man jumped as he sat down beside him.

"That was quick. Didn't expect you so soon, sir."

"I scared you?" Engels looked a bit uneasy. Grimmwald knew he scared everyone. But he wondered what he had done this time.

"You're quiet, like a panther. You snuck up on me, is all." Engles replied. It was flattery masked in a casual comment. Grimmwald just shrugged.

They sat in silence for a bit, scanning the darkness for hidden opponents.

"Do you fear me Engels?" Grimmwald whispered.

"What was that?"

"Are you afraid of me?"

There was a loaded silence and Engels fidgeted uncomfortable.

"Honestly? A little." Grimmwald exhaled slightly. He had known it was true, now it was just confirmed for him. "But… I wish I could be more like you. We all do."

Grimm's blood went cold, icy like the environment around him. They wanted to _be like him? _These depraved assholes wanted to destroy _children _as efficiently as he did.

"Why?" He managed to ask. Despite his constricted throat he didn't sound too strangled. Engels blew on his hands.

"Well, you can just disconnect. You feel no guilt, no hesitation. It's impressive; it's how every soldier wants to be." Grimmwald felt a shiver go up his spine. Was every single Nazi as despicable as Hitler? Even Engels, the kindest out of his section, wanted to be a monster. As if in response to his unasked question, Engels chuckled.

"Besides, you're the best fighter out of all of us, and you got promoted very quickly. It's …impressive."

Grimmwald sighed, and his breath fogged before him in a puff of white. "Impressive, huh?"

"What was that sir?" Engels asked.

"Nothing. I'm going back to bed. Good talk, Sturmmann." He said, clapping the man on the shoulder.

Ever Nazi was the same. As he got back into bed, he stared at his shaking hands, fighting to control his rage. He wanted to end his whole battalion, end the whole damn war, and save his family. But he was just a man.

In the darkness, envious lavender eyes watched his every move.

_April 7th 1944_

"Scharfuhrer Jaeger." Grimmwald knew the voice behind him very well. He didn't even turn around to look at the lavender eyed bastard behind him.

"Rottenfuhrer Antenor. What is it?"

Lutz fluttered his eyelashes and smirked, and Grimmwald felt a chill go down his spine. Something about Lutz made him want to start killing. _If I killed him, would anyone really care? _He thought absently, before snapping himself out of it. Killing Lutz would serve no purpose, no matter how much he wanted to.

"You know, you've been advancing quite quickly through the ranks, I couldn't help but notice." He began, running a hand through his black hair, let grow a bit longer than a normal soldier would keep it. His purple eyes stood out more than they ever had when they were children against his black SS uniform, and his voice was sickeningly sweet. Grimmwald felt instantly suspicious.

"Thank you. I've noticed your ascension as well. You could say that you're right on my heels, couldn't you?" He replied smoothly. His blue eyes flashed with calculation. What was going on? In the four years that this war began the only real contact Lutz had made with him was the occasional knowing nod as he maniacally slaughtered innocent Frenchmen. They shared a quiet rivalry, and that meant the only reason this hateful creature was speaking to him was that he felt he had one something.

"You see, Grimm, that's exactly why I did what I did. I really am sorry, I just couldn't take living in your psychotic, _condescending _shadow anymore." Grimmwald felt that hole, that hole that had always been in his stomach widen.

"What have you done?" He roared. Lutz just smile, put his hand on the taller man's shoulder and stood on his tiptoes to whisper in Grimmwald's ear.

"I'd start running, traitor."

Grimm didn't even have time to try and hit the bastard. When he heard those words, he bolted, into the forest, away. He had to hide, that was all that was on his mind. All he heard was Lutz's cold laugh ringing in his ears and a final shout as he raced through the lovely summer green.

"Run, Jaeger-Jacques! Your family is already dead! You fool; you should have killed me when you had the chance!"

_January 1st 1945_

Grimmwald had been slowly been pinched between the Allies and the Axis for nearly a year. He had been smart; he had killed anyone he came across. His once neat blonde hair was now wild; it stuck up despite his best efforts to slick it back. That combined with his whipcord muscles, tattered SS coat and hard, rage filled gaze made him look feral, like an animal.

And he was an animal. One thing consumed his life, he thought about it as he killed a fully armed British soldier with his bare hands, he thought about it as he gulped down raw squirrel with his bare hands, its blood staining the snow.

Destruction.

Vengeance.

He was a cunning animal, and difficult to find, in fact the only reason he was wearing an SS coat was it was the warmest thing he could find, it had been filched from a lone man that he had ambushed from a tree. When had he done that? Sometime in autumn, he remembered.

He stalked through the woods after a cold night of happy dreams. He had a dream he had found Lutz alone in the woods, with his gun and his smug, stupid face. He had a duel with him, and after he had killed the son of a bitch he ate his heart out.

A good dream.

It was then he came upon the boy. It was funny that he thought of this red-haired man a boy, he couldn't have been more than a year younger than Grimm was, and yet, he seemed young. Perhaps it was because he was tangled in a parachute like a baby bird, his arm cradled and bleeding. His breathing was shallow, and puffed in small clouds from his open mouth. Before Grimm might have felt sympathy. Now he only thought one thing: He refused to kill an injured or defenseless person. Never again.

He picked the boy up, untangled him and began to walk. The boy was passed out from blood loss or trauma Grimm did not know, but he had bound the boy's wound with ripped parachute. He kept more on hand for later.

The boy was American, and he looked strong, and fresh, fresher than a soldier from any other country, that was for sure. Then again, the Americans always did. He wanted to fight this strong boy.

He found a barn that wasn't too burnt out, the windows and wood was blackened slightly, but it still stood and would keep out the wind. He set the orange haired American on the ground and covered him with his coat. Gradually, he stopped shivering, while Grimm slowly chilled to the bone.

The boy probably needed stitches. Grimm had killed a medic a few days ago, but it was a long shot that the body was still there. It was a few days travel to boot. He wondered if the boy had any medical supplies. He needed to wake up.

Grimmwald picked up a fistful of snow and rubbed it in the boy's face. The kid woke up sputtering furiously.

"What the Hell?" He shouted. His face flushed heavily from the cold, and Grimmwald frowned at him, clamping a hand over his loud mouth.

Immediately, the boy began struggling. Grimm held him down, trying to prevent him from damaging his arm further. The boy began shouting into his hands.

"Quiet!" Grimmwald hissed. The boy just started shouting louder, the German words confirming what he had already guessed. Grimm realized that this American brat probably didn't speak a word of German. He sighed. His English was pretty shaky.

"Please, quiet. I'm no Nazi." He whispered, struggling to remember what he had been taught by his mother. Why couldn't this guy be French? "No Nazi." He repeated.

Eventually the guy either decided to believe him or just gave up.

Grimm removed his hand from the boy's face, and made a motion of silence. "Quiet?" He asked. The boy nodded.

Grimmwald wracked his brain for the right words. He started with a long shot, but it was the phrase he knew best.

"Do you speak German?" He asked.

"No. I don't, sorry."

"You have injury. Do you have…" He mimed stitching up on his own arm and hoped the kid would get it.

"Oh, I think…" The orange haired boy patted himself down, searching for his first aid supplies. Eventually he found what he was looking for, a little field first aid kit. The parachutist's kit had iodine, which Grimm used deftly, his fingers steady and perhaps a little rougher than necessary, but no needle and catgut. He clicked his tongue in frustration.

"Yeah, sorry there's no needle and thread. Our kits are just for temporary treatment." The boy said. Grimmwald thought about the foreign words for a bit, making sure he understood their meaning. Then he nodded. Some English was coming back to him now.

"My name is Grimmwald Jaeger-Jacques." He said, holding out a hand. The boy took it.

"Isaac Kurian. Why are you helping me? Aren't you a kraut?" Isaac's eyes were piercing brown, and fierce, as Grimmwald had thought they would be.

He wanted to fight Isaac Kurain. He didn't know why, it wasn't logical. Maybe if he knew he could defeat someone who had that much determination, he could take on the Nazi military, or at least some of it.

"I don't kill injured enemies." He muttered. It wasn't technically true, if he felt someone was beneath him, it didn't matter their state, he had proved that much to himself in these past months. But someone who had the potential to be equal in a fight? Why waste that experience?

Isaac's eyes widened slightly. "So you're healing me so you can fight me on equal terms." His face suddenly tuned shrewd, and he appraised Grimmwald, the bunching muscles that were barely restrained by the thin fabric of his shirt, the way he crouched, ready for any attack. The red-head smiled and shrugged. "Works for me. We'll see who's stronger when I'm all healed up."

For a moment the two men stared at each other, grinning madly. And in that moment they understood each other perfectly.

Grimmwald bound the kid's wounds nice and tight. Isaac let a hiss of pain through his lips every now and then, but nothing more than that. He was a tough kid.

"So Grimm-jaw. Why do you have an SS coat?"

"Grimm-jaw?"

"That's what I'm calling you. Answer my question." Grimmwald spared him a stern glare before speaking. It wasn't as if he cared about that kind of thing anyway.

"I am SS at one time."

"A deserter?"

Grimm just nodded.

"Why?"

"I'm killing them all." Grimmwald couldn't really articulate his true feelings in English, so he settled with that. Isaac raised an eyebrow.

"Geez, you really are Grim."

"Verrueckt."

"What?"

"I think the word is crazy." Grimmwald looked into Isaac's eyes, and the American saw the wild insanity that lived in their depths.

"Oh."

"What about you?"

"Me? I'm nothing special, just an American paratrooper. I'm here to finish a war."

"Why?" Grimm asked. Isaac's head snapped up briefly, and they smirked at each other.

"Never figured you for a parrot, Grimm-jaw. My mom was killed by a U-boat. I enlisted the next week."

"I see."

The pair descended into silence, and as snowflakes began to fall, the American and the German fell asleep.

_January 16th 1945_

"Hey. Orange." Grimm called. Isaac looked up from the ground that he had been staring at as he walked.

"Orange?" That's a shitty nickname."

"It's for your hair. Would you prefer 'carrots'?" Grimmwald had gotten tired of being called 'Grimm-jaw' by this boy he barely knew. He had decided that he would give the boy a taste of his own medicine, and had naturally chosen to pick fun at his fiery orange hair.

"I'll have you know I'm a _strawberry blonde._" Isaac sniffed. Sarcasm dripped from his voice.

"I guess you'll have to be Fraise then."

"Fraise?"

"French. Sounds a bit better than your silly English word, 'strawberry' or German for that matter. 'Erdbeere.'" Grimmwald shrugged.

"You speak French?"  
"My mother was French. And, it was taught in school."

"Is that why you want to kill Nazi's?" Isaac asked. Grimm stopped for a second and really thought on it.

"Sometimes."

_January 30th 1945_

The blizzard wracked the landscape, and Isaac shivered like her would freeze through, despite the two SS coats he was wearing over his own. Grimmwald could barely feel it, because he had what he wanted. He had found Lutz.

Isaac and Grimm were staying in the lee of a hill, and Grimm had run off to look for something to eat when he came across the large German camp. He hadn't realized they had been so far behind the German line, but there they were, a whole battalion of Waffen-SS. But before he could melt away into the storm, he had caught sight of him. Purple eyes, dark, strangely prim hair, all of it. His pulse had quickened, and he had run back to Isaac.

"Fraise. I won't be coming back, you hear?" He said abruptly. He shrugged his coats off and handed them to the American boy, and shoved a gun into his hands; he hadn't trusted him with one until now.

"What are you saying? What the hell?" Isaac said angrily.

"I'm leaving everything with you, alright. Except these guns and some ammunition." Grimmwald put one in his waistband and took the safety off the other.

"What are you doing? I'm still injured you know!" The bot's face was twisted with worry, with panic. Grimmwald felt a strange surge of affection mixed with a desire to fight.

"You can take care of yourself now. You won't hear from me again." He grunted. Isaac scrambled to his feet.

"Grimm-jaw, I am _not _letting you off yourself, hear me?" He put his cold-chapped hands on Grimm's lapels.

"Sorry I couldn't fight you, Isaac." Grimmwald said gently. Then he clubbed the back of the kid's skull with the butt of his pistol.

He leaned the American up against the little nest where he had been sleeping before. He covered him with his own coat.

"I finally found my revenge, little Strawberry."

He didn't know what would happen to the young man he had left in the snow behind enemy lines. He knew that the kid had the skills to survive, and he was a soldier. If he was strong enough, he would live.

If he was honest with himself, Isaac Kurin had been his only true comrade the entire time he had been in the war.

The closer he came to the campsite, the more difficult it was to hide the grin eclipsing his face.

It was a little camp, with not too many people; it had likely been separated from a main force a while ago. Grimm licked his lips.

_Destroy._

He didn't even try to be subtle, he just charged in. He suddenly felt free, and all the guilt, all the sadness he felt just floated away. He barely remembered family, or childhood, or anything but the bloodlust in his heart and the winter air against his face.

He shot the two guards without a second thought, so quickly that they didn't even register that he pulled the trigger twice. He ran, his black boots kicking up snow and frozen dirt behind his charge.

A bullet skimmed his shoulder, but he hardly felt it, he barely took a second to glance at the culprit before firing and taking him down. Slow soldiers were so much easier to hit than quick little squirrels. He charged through the camp, dodging bullets and killing soldiers, rage and pleasure rising in his chest.

_ Destroy._

One after the other Nazis dropped into the snow, their red blood blossoming onto the ground, their faces contorted with fear and confusion and pain. It was… thrilling to him. He was enraptured by it, he held their lives in his hands and it was so easy, so easy to just drop them on the white ground into those red blossoms, to spill their souls into the cold world.

Suddenly he saw his pray. The demon that had killed his family.

"LUTZ!" he roared, charging forward. A bullet chipped his shoulder, knocking him off balance, but he took no notice as the blood dripped down his arm, soaking his sleeve and freezing in the chill night air.

The dark haired man turned to run, but Grimmwald used his last bullet to tear through his prey's knee. He raced up, drawing his knife.

"A bullet is too good for a rat like you, anyway." He growled. He pinned Lutz down with his knee. Lutz wheezed a bit, and then began to speak.

"Please. Please don't. Grimm? Aren't we friends, Grimm?"

"You shut your fucking mouth!" Grimm spat, digging a jagged fingernail into the smaller man's eye. It squelched as he gouged it out, he felt the lens on his finger and the liquid run down his hand and he took Lutz's eye and he had never felt so satisfied. The little coward shrieked, and Grimm-jaw laughed. He wanted to hear Lutz scream.

He wanted to destroy Lutz's very soul.

_Destroy._

_ Destroy._

He dragged his nails down his enemy's face and felt the flesh accumulate beneath his nails. Lutz wailed and writhed, and began to curse.

"Killing me won't make your family return Grimm. We killed them, the Fuhrur thanked me himself you pitiful French swine."

"Shut up you son of a bitch!" Grimm's voice was such a strained growl it sounded like a hiss. He snapped Lutz's arm at the elbow, so it bent backwards with a snap. The scream he drew out from Lutz was inhuman.

_Destroy._

Grimm laughed as Lutz screamed, arched his back, panted. There was no better feeling than slowly watching that smug face twisted in pain. With an enormous show of will, Lutz managed to put his eyes on Grimm's face. Somehow his eyes were filled with condescension.

"I told them all that you willingly betrayed them, you fool. They died cursing your name you pitiful dog." He spat the confession, and it mixed with the blood on his face and the superiority of his heart. Grimmwald Jaeger-Jaques, a traitor to his country and his family. He could hear them, in his head. The Nazis. The Germans.

Laughing.

Mocking.

Looking down on him in their false superiority.

He roared, and felt it course through his veins. Destruction, his life blood, the only thing that could heal his shattered soul.

"You will never look down on me again!" He screamed at the man on the ground, at the sky, at the world. He plunged his knife into Lutz's chest, the dark haired man wailed in pain as Grimm hacked his heart from his chest. He felt the flesh tear of the metal of the knife, and he felt the ribs crack beneath him had he slashed and howled. Finally, with a cry of triumph, he tore the mangled heart from the bloody, torn cavity before him. Blood fell from it onto his face as he held it aloft, some of the drops fell into his laughing, grinning mouth.

_Destroy._

He threw the heart to the side and began to tear out the corpse's innards; they steamed as her flung them up into the chill winter air- pieces of torn lung, part of a liver, a long, elegant string of intestines. With his bare hands he tore at the body, and in a sudden fit of rage he began to bash the black haired man's pale face in.

He felt the delicate bones snap beneath his might, and he watched the brains leak onto the snow. Grim was no longer human, he was a beast that brought death, a beast that laughed at the chunks of face that remained of the thing that had once been living.

A sudden crack of a gunshot echoed through the winter air, and Grimm fell, his meal only half finished, into the snow. He touched his abdomen in awe, where a hole that had not been there before He had been shot in the back, he thought angrily. I can't be destroyed, not here. He tried to shout it, but he couldn't even make a sound. A shadow, a blot of darkness, fell across his face and he looked up.

A man looked down on him with contempt and horror on his face. Grimm struggled, but he couldn't move. He was dying.

As all faded to black, he caught a snatch of words on the wind. A final sound from the man who had shot him. A voice filled with contempt and regret.

"What a monster."

The words were in French

Grimm felt a hollowness through his abdomen that was quickly filled with rage and hate. This bastard was looking down on him too? His countryman? They all thought of him as lesser didn't they. _Didn't They?_ He felt his soul, leaking out of his teeth and sent it off with a final wish.

"I will destroy you all."


End file.
